


I'll Spin You Valentine Evenings

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: AU, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26958832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: Fillorian guard Quentin Coldwater sneaks into a royal masquerade ball to get a glimpse of the high king and meets a beautiful stranger instead.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39
Collections: Kinktober Horror Erotica Collection by Quentins_Quill





	I'll Spin You Valentine Evenings

**Author's Note:**

> Cinderella meets Labyrinth for this one. Title borrowed from "As the World Falls Down," lyrics by the legendary David Bowie. For Kinktober: The Queliot Edition. Day:11, Prompt: "Masquerede Ball."

Quentin Coldwater, Fillorian guard, Order of the Gilded Peacock, slipped into a crowd of chatting, excited guests as they headed down the cobblestone path that led to Castle Whitespire. Instead of his uniform, which marked him as a village guard, he wore a bright red-and-gold phoenix costume, his arms and back laden with crafted feathers. His long, tawny hair pulled back and similarly adorned, his eyes and nose concealed by a sparkling, thin metallic mask. The mask was painted in sunburst colors of red and gold. 

As a common village guard, his daily tasks included watches at the main gates, keeping the peace when traders disagreed about their wares and prices, and ensuring no one got too rowdy at either of the two pubs in the village that sat in Whitespire’s massive shadow. Born of a minor knight and a woman of earth with Fillorian blood, Quentin’s aspirations were likely above his station: to join the Order of the Golden Ram, the faction that guarded Whitespire’s hallowed halls. He longed for a glimpse of the High King, to see if rumors of his beauty were true or simply an exaggeration. This masquerade ball, held in honor of a minor Fillorian god, now gave Quentin the chance to slip into the castle and perhaps see the king with his own eyes. 

The throng of people entered the castle and two guards guided them to a majestic ballroom that Quentin felt must run the entire width of the castle. Paper lanterns of all colors illuminated the room, splashing light across the polished marble floor. Servants circled the room with trays of drink and food, and music played from what Quentin knew was a magical source--his mother’s father had been a Brakebills graduate and some testing during entry to the royal guard showed the presence of some ambient magic. 

After wandering the room for nearly an hour, Quentin began to worry that the castle guards would recognize him for a soldier, as he had none of the social graces of the other guests. He slipped from the room, feeling foolish and cursing himself as he tried to find his way back to the castle exit. People in costume passed him constantly, bumping him and jostling each other, drunk on good wine and the party’s grandeur. Soon, Quentin found himself lost in a maze of hallways. 

_ Idiot! What have you done?  _

He ducked left, right, left again, and then through a doorway that led to a third-floor balcony and a dead end. Quentin paused there, trying to catch his breath and get his bearings when a voice spoke to him from behind. 

“Hello.” 

Quentin turned, his heart snapping upward like a bolo bouncer. A tall figure stood there, dressed in a glimmering white shirt, vest, and coat. His boots were polished ebony and clung to slim yet toned calves. His hair was a silver mane with thousands of glittering points, and the half-mask he wore featured a fine spiral horn. Quentin felt transfixed by the shape of the stranger’s mouth and chin. 

“I--I’m sorry,” Quentin said at last. “I got lost trying to find the ballroom.” 

“The ballroom, hmmm?” 

“Yes, for the party,” Quentin nodded. “It may sound silly but I was hoping to get a glimpse of High King Eliot.” 

“Oh? Why is that?” 

“I’ve--” the young soldier blushed. “I’ve heard things.” 

“Things?” 

“People say he’s as handsome as a god.” 

“Do they?” 

“Aye, they do.” 

“And you wanted to judge for yourself,” The stranger took a step forward. He towered over the Fillorian by at least six inches. “I fear he’d disappoint you. I know the king--you mustn't think of him as some higher being.” 

“You know High King Eliot?” 

“Yes. He’s a difficult man. Mercurial, spoiled, emotional.” 

“It's probably not easy being king. Maybe he just acts that way to protect himself. Just as we wear masks at a ball, so must we in life, sometimes.” Quentin paused. “And . . . surely he’s as beautiful as people say?” 

“Are you interested in beautiful men, little phoenix?” The stranger smiled. Quentin felt heat rush to his cheeks. From out in the hallway (or he supposed,) music began to play. “Dance with me, and I’ll take you to meet the king.” 

“You swear it?”    
“I do.” The man took his hands--he wore supple black kidskin gloves--and waltzed him around the sizeable balcony. Fillory’s twin moons rose behind them. One of the stranger’s hands dropped to Quentin’s hip and he felt a tingle at the contact, like he’d touched the tip of a magic wand (he’d done that once--his cousin Pyortr owned one and was a graduate of a wizarding school on earth, somewhere in the western hemisphere.) 

“You have much to say about the high king’s beauty, “ the stranger said. “Are you not aware of your own?” 

“Everyone looks attractive in the moonlight.” 

“How modest,” the stranger smiled as their dance continued. “But I don’t say it to flatter you.” A long arm encircled his waist and pulled him closer. “You have a mouth most men would fight for the honor of kissing.” The stranger touched his fingers to Quentin’s lips. “Curved, like the rind of a Fillorian moon in harvest time. And soft . . .” A thumb stroked across his lower lip in a way that was so intimate Quentin blushed. “So very beautiful.” He lowered his head to kiss Quentin’s lips and the young soldier felt he might swoon at the feel of it. The man’s glittering coat winked in the moonlight. 

They kissed, danced, and kissed again, their hands finding the wonder of each other as they wandered over each other’s chests and backs, fingers tracing the lines of each other’s cocks as their kisses deepened. Quentin was lost in the stranger’s touch when the village’s bell chimed, signaling the apex of the twin moons. 

“It’s time for the unmasking,” the stranger said. Quentin glanced up at the sky to the two moons. 

“Which means the party is over,” he sighed. “I missed my chance to see the king.” He took his mask off. “I’m Quentin. Thank you for the dance.” 

The stranger removed his mask, and the silver mane came with it. The wig revealed ebony curls, and the mask--how could it have hidden such beauty? 

“The honor was mine.” He took Quentin’s hand and kissed it. “I’m Eliot.” 

“Eliot . . .” Quentin felt his heart jitter in his ribcage like a nervous sparrow. A servant came to the balcony entrance, a crown on a purple pillow. 

“Your guests await a toast, your majesty.” 

“Thank you.” Eliot slipped the crown on. Quentin stared. 

“You . . .” 

Eliot nodded. 

“Eliot Waugh. Or High King Eliot, whichever you prefer.” He touched Quentin’s hair. “And I do hope meeting him hasn’t disappointed you, little phoenix.” He smiled. “Will you join me in a toast?” He offered his hand and Quentin took it, thinking that maybe Eliot Waugh could help him remove some masks of his own. 

“I’d be delighted, your majesty.” 

THE END 

__  
  



End file.
